


we call this regret

by lady_mab



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, heiron era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 16:09:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11855091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_mab/pseuds/lady_mab
Summary: For just a split second… you swear,you swearyou hear him say “I can’t stay mad at you”.And then his voice is gone, and it won’t come back.





	we call this regret

**Author's Note:**

> i really loved this scene so i rewrote it

Hella watches the door closed behind her friends -- one last frantic glance cast over their shoulders before it slams shut. Their footsteps fade, and behind her, Calhoun sighs in frustration.

She turns to him, then immediately regrets it as he gives her a questioning tilt of his brow. "Calhoun--" she starts, looking away, and he makes a sound in the back of his throat. She sits down on the edge of the cot, on the opposite end from him, and it squeaks beneath her weight. "This is going to be a weird question, and I know we don't usually talk about stuff like this, but..."

He doesn't say anything, or give any indication. He only shifts in his seat, leaning his head back against the wall and exhaling.

With a heavy sigh of her own, Hella closes her eyes and pushes on. "Can you--" No. Stop. Try again. "This thing with your dad, can you--" No, that's not going to work either. Try for something casual and conversational. Get him talking. Let her know this will be worth it. "What kind of relationship did you guys have?"

To her surprise, his response is a strained laugh. From the corner of her eye, she can see his shoulders shake and his hands turn up in defeat. "I was a little boy and my father was the king of the undead," he replies in a tone that means _how do you think?_. "It was _tenuous_."

It goes silent, and she lets her eyes close again. But then his voice rises, shaky and uncertain. "He... He was a very noble man. And sometimes, nobility convinces you that you know better for the world than what the world knows for itself." Calhoun, or perhaps she should call him Angelo, but that leaves a bad taste in her mouth -- Calhoun sighs and forces out the rueful words. "And I was young and thought that that could never be true. _That_ is the sort of relationship I had with my father."

She could feel the power behind those words, the abject hatred that he carried with him for so long -- at his father, his sister, his country. His legacy. "Yeah..." Hella says, letting the thought leave her on a tired breath. "He doesn't sound like a great guy."

Her jaw clenches and she sits forward, resting her elbows on her knees and staring down at her hands. Her knuckles are turning white as she tries to keep her hands from shaking.

Slowly, so slowly, she pieces her thoughts together before her resolve can crumble. "You asked me before if I came here to help you. I really did. I get angry... and I get distracted, and I--" Hella feels the grip of the sword in her hands, the rage in her system as she faced off against Brandish twice, and the wrong one of them ended up dead. The rage she felt at herself as she let Calhoun get taken. "That's what happened when I let them take you. I can't--um. So."

Despite herself, she laughs, and it surprises her when there's a hiccup of something else attached to it. "I--I don't have my sword so I." Keep going. _Keep going._ "I, I guess... We could..." She can't. She loses her resolve. "I met your dad."

Calhoun's head swivels towards her so fast that she thinks he might smack it against the cell wall. His eyes, always so shrewd and bright, narrow as he watches her. "Excuse me?"

"I met your dad," she repeats, and that sad, strained laugh works its way out of her a second time.

Confusion and disbelief echo in his face. His voice is flat and lifeless. "My father is dead. _I killed him_."

"Yeah. I know. But--" There's her own disbelief in her laughter, what would be fond amusement if she didn't know what has to happen. "You're from Nacre. You don't know how this works?"

His scoff shares the same tone. "I-I don't know what you're talking about, but I think you should leave." There's something else there. A growing realization. A growing dread. She feels it too.

"I just--" she tries, but he cuts her off and turns towards the door.

"Guards!"

"No-- _no_." Hella reaches for his hand to try and stop him. "He wants--" She breathes, remembers the look on the dead king's face as he makes his request. "He wants me to kill you."

Calhoun can't say anything. His jaw ticks open and his eyes widen. As if he can't believe she actually said that.

She can't believe she said it either. This isn't how it should go. She's Hella Veral, warrior of Ordenna. She doesn't waste time on words.

And yet here she is, trying to explain herself to him.

"And I don't want to," she hurries to clarify, but the damage is already done. "But if _she's_ going to, then why don't I?"

He recoils from her then, and the betrayal on his face nearly knocks the breath out of her lungs.

This time, Hella doesn't realize that she's reaching for him until he smacks her hand away. "If you're going to be tortured--"

Calhoun jerks to his feet and, for just a moment, sways unsteadily. His eyes cast about frantically, trying to find any sort of answer, any sort of way to make sense of this. "You _threw me_ to the dogs, and now you're going to kill me?"

Hella can barely hear him over her own thundering heartbeat. Noise fills her ears and it's hard to see him.

"This is what's going to happen right now? Alright." He holds out his arms towards her, gesturing for her to try. His voice catches and snags. "Fine. Let's go. Why not here." There's tears staining his cheeks, and when Hella reaches for him, it's like reaching through molasses.

"I--" Her breath comes out as a sob. "I'm so sorry--"

He's not listening to her litany of apologies. "I'm giving you three seconds to get out here." A last ditch effort to spare both of them.

"I really wanted to save you," she whispers.

Calhoun shakes his head, gritting his teeth, hands clenched into fists. "I don't know what the _fuck_ you're talking about."

She's on her feet before she realizes it, closing the distance between them, her body trembling. "I'm so sorry," she says again before she moves on instinct.

The punch comes quick and catches him in the stomach. Calhoun wheezes as the air is forced from his body. Her hand finds his shoulder to hold him steady.

His elbow snaps back, gazing her cheek. Hella barrels through the burst of pain and pushes her fist up until his knees start to buckle.

She gives one squeeze of his shoulder, as if to reassure him _everything will be alright_ , before shifting her grip to his throat.

It's easy, she realizes. He's big, he’s tough, but she's bigger and tougher. Her leg kicks out and sweeps behind his ankles.

When he falls, she follows him down. Tries to keep his head from cracking against the stone floor of the cell. She kneels over him, hands around his neck. His pulse sings beneath her fingers, _Tristero_ , like her sword. _Tristero, Tristero,_ and he's scrambling to find purchase on her arms. _Tristero, Tristero_ , and she's pushing down harder -- because maybe it can block out his angry cry.

His nails scrape her cheek. He snarls, growls, fights with every fiber of his being, but it's not enough to overpower her.

It's not enough to overpower the chill she feels tracing the bulging tendons on the backs of her hands, forcing her grip town harder.

When he dies, there's a faint wheeze of breath and a moment of stillness. But the job isn't done. His face is still animated, and she keeps going. The bone numbing cold fills her, fuels her. Calhoun thrashes, no longer trying to fight back, just trying to fight to hang on. An instinct that she wishes she could pluck from him.

Just let him go peacefully. That's all she wanted.

There's no breath as he dies a second time. Just a spectral image beneath her hands. Solid enough as she continues to squeeze.

The fight goes out of him as his gaze meets hers. Even through her tears, she can see the resigned expression at the very end.

His eyes close, and the memory of a tear stains his cheeks.

It surprises Hella when her hands close in on each other. Like a clap, echoing off the stone in the big empty room. An accusation hovering unspoken.

Her hands are wavering over his throat, clenched together, strangling her own grip as she tries--

Her body shudders and heaves, and the sobs tear through her lungs.

There's a flash of lighting and a roll of thunder, but all she can see are the angry red welts on his neck. All she can hear are her ragged breaths.

All she can feel is an empty, silent room.

There's a key in the lock of the cell door, and Hella hefts herself to her feet. Every inch of her is heavy, and she wants nothing more than to collapse.

But she is Hella Veral, warrior of Ordenna, and she has killed for far less than her life. She does not regret.

Still, she avoids looking at the body on the floor.

The door swings open and, with her gaze focused on the cell window and the rain falling down, she holds her hands up over her head. "It was the will of Tristero," she says. _Why can't she stop sobbing?_ "Just take me to the queen." _Just please let this be over._

The guard says something behind her. His voice is strained, frantic, horrified. Every nerve in her body feels the same way. But instead of dragging her out, he slams the cell door shut.

Instead of taking her to face justice, he leaves her there.

Hella turns and all she can see is Calhoun's -- _Angelo's_ \-- body on the floor.

"Don't just leave me in this room," she whispers through her tears.

There is no answer.

He legs give out from beneath her, and she drops onto the cot.

Slowly, inch by inch, she doubles over and buries her face in her hands.


End file.
